


Corrupted

by Ooze



Category: DmC: Devil May Cry
Genre: Blood and Injury, Gen, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-20
Packaged: 2019-01-04 08:41:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12165414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ooze/pseuds/Ooze
Summary: Hell had touched him, left himtouched. When he returned to Earth, he'd brought along unwanted company: a stain, a permanent reminder of the inferno he'd escaped.





	1. Chapter 1

Maybe if he'd bothered with precaution, used his head when it really mattered, then he might not have to be going through this right now.

Even in the safety of his own home he must be tormented by the demon pushing back behind a mental barricade. Just when he thought he'd been finished with this, it all came screaming back. The burden and the beating in his chest had welcomed pangs he very well imagined he'd be allowed to forget. As if grasping at his chest made any difference whatsoever, he balled his hand into a fist—and maybe, to fool himself, it had made him believe that it eased the suffering a slight touch. A shame to say: it was false hope, and he was well aware of that given the unrelenting pressure his own body elected to put him through. The poor thing, hardly in control of himself anymore while he quaked and wavered where he stood. It was fight enough to merely keep himself on his feet; he had doubled over as he wrestled with the demon he'd chosen to share his space with. And this arrangement was for life, only he didn't think when he'd acted instead. Just as before, when he thought he'd slain the imposter, his spirit crackled at his core; his blood boiled and froze, flesh ran hot and cold. He should have been too weak to stand, but maybe that was the extent of his grit. Just to stand _at all_ , the only thing he could muster when all else failed him. It'd gotten harder to catch his breath, to keep it, and harder still to prevent a total collapse. All of this within a span of seconds. Deep within his conscience, he must have berated his genetics for forming a being too strong to simply black out. Oh, how he craved this human weakness now; to lose consciousness and forget all of this, to go without torment for at least a handful of peaceful hours before he'd wake and live through it all for another round. But, as it happened, he would contend with glacial flames lapping at his flesh, searing and freezing within the same damned breath.

His skin must have cracked at every inch—but, perhaps, the veining visible on his pallid face might have explained the cause of the sensation. Beads of cold perspiration collected upon his brow, and he'd sworn he'd been going through cardiac arrest if not for the fact that he regrettably knew _better_. His mind had fogged, and yet it was full. Brimming, polluted with smog and sulfur and a haunting voice to drown all of his chaos out. Body and spirit were wracked, and the strength in his muscles had all but crept away. Pain mounted, sensations overwhelming from head to toe. A free hand balled, too, and swept up to join its partner; and he pressed his hardest, believing his heart would bleed out of his chest otherwise. It'd come to vocalizing without delay: grunts and groans, and stifled cries just about all he could manage, and all that he _dared_ to try. Even through this, through damned torment, he would stubbornly seek his pride and composure. A gallant thing, or a sad one? At least it showed he hadn't slipped entirely. Of course, the hollowed part of him wouldn't allow for anything less. It _needed_ him, whatever strands of his awareness were there for it to latch onto. The two formed a symbiosis of sorts—though one was more a parasite, and the other its host—and this Vergil was sure to never forget.

With all of his snarling in a tone most monstrous, he hardly resembled a man anymore. Now, lo, existed a creature to be feared. No more had he a voice smooth, calm, and pleasant. Its pitch descended, degraded itself as if gone back down the abyss from which he had emerged. The noise in his head, the agony all throughout his body and his soul could have smothered him alive. Yet, it hadn't. It wasn't _enough_.

As if on cue with a sweeping crescendo, the loudness in his consciousness had managed to elicit a roar from lips no longer as pallid as all the flesh upon him, and it was this climax that finally urged balled fists to unfurl and open palms and digits to grasp at a head of white, upswept strands. He roiled within himself, Hell and Heaven warring even here. Legs as stiff as iron had carried him toward whatever support he could bump into, and it was the slightest mercy unto him that he should be stopped by a firm wall. Against it a haggard body had leaned for the simplest reason of keeping the nephilim from falling. He pressed himself ever closer, pretending it may force him upright. His body angled itself askew so his face would bury into the rotting paneling, in part to muffle the only noise heard throughout the mansion. If Vergil only knew: he need only cease resistance for the torment to end. Damned stubborn, even now, the most vulnerable he'd ever been, and he would refuse. Valiant or foolish, it hadn't mattered; in the end, his darkness would prevail. When it really mattered, when so much lay at stake, how could it not? For all of Vergil's strength, he was weak. Ever malleable, ever sensitive.

Fingers might have dug right in to tear at the scalp, but in as much dramatic fervor as seconds before, Vergil's world fell quiet. There was an unbelievable lightness to his chest, any and all tightened knots undone; the flames were snuffed and the frost thawed. Already had his sweat begun evaporating, and much to sought after relief was he able to breathe without so much as a hitch or a stab. Lids opened, haltingly, and the world had flushed into view after prolonged darkness. However, his environment wasn't all that different. Paradise was dimly lit. Rapidly had his ailments withdrawn, likely back to his recesses, but phantom sensations lingered all throughout a body that tingled. Still felt too much. Arms were forgotten momentarily before they'd decided to drop of their own accord. Slowly did his fingers release his scalp, and through hesitation his arms eventually fell to meet his flanks once more—but not without having his hands return to his chest as if to assure himself that he'd remained whole. No punctures or gouges, no gashes or torn pieces of fabric. No blood, _no blood_. Not a pain or a scent of any nature to indicate the contrary. He attempted a glance at his chest, still using the wall for support, but upon noting his sleeves he felt his breath catching again: no longer were they black, but a light shade of blue, luminous, _just as before_. His gloves, too, had changed, becoming more white than color. Now it was cemented, though he'd yet to register his power. The mind was still numb, somewhat, and that much was understandable. Out of sorts, Vergil flattened a hand against the wall beside him in an effort to push himself away. His spine demanded straightening, and so it was: he could finally stand at his full height, and there seemed to be some relief gained from the return of perfect posture. How conflicting this all had been: his body was tired, he _knew_ it should have been, but he felt… nothing. No fatigue, no wear, as if he hadn't a reason for it. That must have been the sudden disconnect between mind and body to take hold. He believed one thing while he felt another. An odd grouping of sensations, but it would not last long enough to drive him mad.

Everything felt fine, felt normal. In some ways, he felt _better_. His spirit would contest that, however, and it was odd indeed that his emotions would come into play so strongly here. What had made this experience so different than the first? Vergil hadn't suffered quite as much then, if at all. He could only chalk it up to his surroundings: Hell was easy on someone almost equally hellish— _conjecture at best_. It was a hope, nothing more, that this would get easier with repetition. Vergil had yet to realize the glow to his orbs, and how fitting they'd become for him as he stood there in the murk of a house left derelict. His face was softly illuminated as a result, and this would draw eyes toward a sight many would prefer not to see. The tint to his skin, the veining—he resembled a specter. Who would trust something so offensively ghoulish?

The emptiness of the hall, and of the adjoining rooms, had suddenly come alive. While Vergil had been the only living soul to stir within the confines of the mansion, the very vacuum of nothingness had made itself all too present and invasive. It seemed his senses were fine-tuned, sharpened beyond the norm. This— _thi_ _s_ was his Devil Trigger, wasn't it? Now that he'd begun calming, coming to grips with the situation, the truth of the matter had come to realization. It was no wonder he felt fit and sprightly: his body healed itself at twice the speed, with twice the potency. It was no wonder his pains and his aches had left him so suddenly, and without a trace. He'd not caught the sound or the sensation of his heart beating anymore. With oxygen resupplied to his lungs, and blood flow stabilized, the nephilim found himself in better form than he'd been since he'd left that infernal place. And though, physically, he was fine, in regard to sensibility he had not fared quite as well. Vexed he had remained, at least to some degree, mind working tirelessly to find both cohesion and firm mental footing.

A hand had wandered over his chest, subconsciously feeling for his amulet. Though it'd been felt beneath the sweater he wore, he felt compelled to fish it out just to confirm, to set his mind at ease even if in this small way. The thing carried its usual weight as it dangled from the cord, and Vergil looked it over without any expression to betray his ghostly features. It was fine, and so was he, and in Paradise he remained—no illusion, no trickery, here. No demons to drag him away, none at all to illicit the momentary torment he'd suffered. Well, none, maybe, save for the one harbored within the nephilim. What hell to deal with, this, but no power of Vergil's would change the tide. Sad to say he had no choice in the matter, and rather than dwell on it, he decidedly tucked his amulet away before leaving the hall. His steps were audible thanks to the soles of his shoes and the distinct heel-to-toe filling his ears. That bothersome voice had returned in the meantime to sway his action. Both an influence and an instinct, the demon that resided within him needed little effort to push its host out of doors, as if something out there had awaited them both. Off he went to fetch Yamato from his bedroom, his gait restored as he then capably descended the steps leading out into the foyer. It was the double doors from there, and on to the outside. Cool winds blew against his face, gentle as they greeted him and passed right on by. Ah, the autumn months had come upon him, and that was small cause for an elevation of spirits for a nephilim who'd preferred a chilled climate. The air carried familiar, pungent scents, reminding him that his world had become saturated with demonic essences. A light snarl touched his maw, top lip curling to reflect repulsion.

That damned voice from before decided to chime back in, and it was without hardship that it urged its host to proceed deeper into the city. _You know what you want. It's out there_ , the Hollow would tempt, and Vergil was bound to follow. Undoubtedly, he understood the suggestion, and his mind was sadly still touched, still quite vulnerable to simple persuasion on the part of the Hollow. Nothing and no one could get past his skull aside from the one added consciousness already inside of it. Guided by one-half himself, one-half the other, _all still him combined_ , he left the relative safety of his property to venture deeper into the city. Fortunate that no one else was out at this hour: any mere human would bolt at the sight of him, and he really could do without provocation of any kind. As confidently as he went, appearing composed and ignorant of the world around him, he would just as readily prove that his nerves were hair triggers. His so called composure hung only by a thread, in reality, and if his patience were to be tested now, the end result would not yield grace and glory. As it was, he trod upon this human land with no care. Hell had on him a vice, one practically about to choke its prey, and he hadn't so much as winced under the pressure. Simply enough, he either didn't notice it or didn't mind. Clouds obscured his judgment still, despite how much they'd have cleared away by now. At least the night sky was whole, full, a mess of shimmering points. A vast expanse of nothing, of exactly what it was: space. If an inexplicable lust hadn't stolen his concentration, he may have looked up. Might have been enough to jog his sanity.

The voice in his head told him there was much to be gained further ahead. So very ready and able was he, no less a picture of brilliance and prowess than when he first embraced the devil only a short time ago. A figure of contrasts, a dark vision in the night, but there was a glow faint enough about him. However, with the cover of night sufficient in obscuring his form, and driving home any careless humans out and about, he was perfectly free. The city itself had shed much of its neon and luminescence ever since the demons lost their Limbo. A small inconvenience for Vergil, but no matter where he walked his space would be respected. The city could be explored at his leisure if he so desired. Passing by abandoned buildings, and even traversing over the remains of them, was sure enough evidence that the residential district had been left farther behind. One could determine the heart of the city neared when surroundings degraded with every mile covered. The tapping of his soles as each shoe struck the asphalt reminded him of his aimlessness, but it wasn't quite enough to shake him. At least, for the time being, he knew he was headed _forward_. Imagine his disappointment when a fresh emergence of ill symptoms returned, and the nephilim's pacing had slowed. And to think he'd walked a handful of miles only. How coincidental that he'd felt tighter pulls and sharper pushes to wherever he chose to go, a nagging and goading in his mind that grew ever emphatic. Despite the desire, his body slowed itself, as if hesitating all the more with mild pain and confusion. His heart gave him trouble again. Perhaps it was ever more gratuitous that a force crept its way into Vergil's consciousness. Something new, something unsettling. With a hand returned to his chest, and a snarl to his lip, the young lord primed himself for a hostile encounter. He'd think he was in no shape, but who was he to run from a threat? Pride would not have him believe he was anything inferior to whatever he may face.

The path ahead certainly reeked of demon, but… only one imprint of said life force had been detected within the immediate zone. This was no half-breed, but a creature purely of Hell. Instantly antagonistic. Hackles rose, hair bristled, flesh and spine tingled. It was close! It was now that he ignored the Hollow's murmurings, and his hand went withdrawn in order to hold the hilt of his blade. Not yet drawn, but the steel itself hungered, hidden in the confines of its sheath. Perfectly synchronized, the two; one animate, one inanimate, both understanding and deserving of each other's respect. An obscure concept, but it was not one to judge by logic. Emotions mattered here; gut feelings, instincts, the twinge of the slightest nerve a perfect means of communication. Even with Vergil at the fringes of his right mind, his trust and his life remained with an ancient blade. No one else could try to dissect his relationship with the one thing he held dearest. And there, just beneath a streetlight bent out of shape (but by no means illuminated), Vergil could perceive the silhouette of a thing organic, and not quite human, but not quite monstrous. Not once had his Trigger faltered since it'd erupted, even with the dissipation of his symptoms some moments earlier. In spite of this, he bravely pushed on out of want to discover the identity of this curious demon. They were undoubtedly outside of the common, both in appearance and in manner, and it was as he bore his eyes into them when they spoke against _his_ lack of tact.

“You would stare me to death,” they had observed coolly, though it was obvious they meant to reprimand. Vergil halted, uncertain and in some pain still, watching them turn toward him with all the ease of one confident in their handling of an encounter so fraught with danger.

“But that's no way to greet my lord, is it?”

“Yours?”

“I recognize your power, if nothing else.”

Damn this one: Vergil could scarcely read them from these words alone, although he did gather that they were indifferent toward any potential reaction of his. Either they were in over their head, or they'd trusted  _absolutely_  in their ability to ward him off. He would have preferred the former, but somehow he ascertained that was simply not the case. With brow sunk, eyes gleamed as if incandescent, ever studious as they marked the appearance of the demon opposite him. Weathered, yet of wit; not quite grotesque to the eyes, but rather  _fair_ in comparison to the beauties that sickened him, along with the entirety of mankind. Indeed, this demon 's visage was almost of human qualities—but that unusual lens affixed to one side of their face was enough of a confirmation that it was no mere illusion or trick of the mind; that he'd stood in the company of a demon and nothing less or more. And, as such, Vergil's trust would not be extended.

“You've become quite popular in the short time that you've ascended the ranks,” they went on. “Of course, that was determinable given what I knew. I gave your brother a little food for thought, but I wonder if he ever did think—before it all came to a head.”

In Vergil's gut coiled deep resentment, the mere mention of his brother more than sufficient in stirring up the acids. It gave rise to refreshed feelings of abhorrence, to new pangs in his chest, but he resolved to stand before this seemingly omniscient figure without a waver to his being. Still, he winced, struggled against the sensations all about him, and the voice in his head came ringing louder in demand for attention.  _He's allied with Dante,_ it hissed,  _you should kill him where he stands_.

“You know him,” Vergil challenged, pushing the Hollow away in the meantime. There was a noticeable growl to his voice, a darkness about his entire manner coming to the attention of himself and the demon. “You're Phineas, aren't you? You helped…  _him_.”

_Helped him uncover his potential. What good did that do for either of you?_


	2. Chapter 2

He remembered that he'd been told about the eye, about the favor his brother had done for the demon Phineas in order to have help returned. More memorable was the name: he'd already known of it, and it was now that he made the connection between these facts, and he struggled all the more to trust one who'd aided his  _murderer_  so openly. But the demon appeared far from nonplussed, bothered, or threatening to Vergil. Quite the contrary: he carried himself plainly and mildly, standing before the nephilim with the greatest patience and the most ease, as if comfortable in the presence of a friend. He placed his focus upon Vergil to the fullest as he watched him in turn. Sagacious was the gleam in his one eye; a keenness that showed even beneath the curtain of night. From the lens, less could be determined.

“I helped him help you. Wasn't he sent to Limbo on your behalf?”

Vergil became reluctant to answer, and his silence served as the indicator that allowed Phineas to continue.

“The whole thing was circumstantial for me. I had part of my sight returned thanks to Dante, and you both had your revolution. And through this, I also found my freedom. Actually, the both of you have done me a deal of good.” So genial was he in his speech that it almost felt like inflated deceit; conspicuous, made to show that he had something tucked away that would injure either mind or integrity. But he did not quake, unlike the youth before him. “You're thinking I should be in Hell— _I_  would think so—but when Limbo came apart, I was among the many to join this plane. I've been here since then, observing. I doubt you would ever mind me. l—”

“I mind,” Vergil corrected with a snap. “You're an ally to Dante. I should have you skewered to the floor just for that.”

“I have no quarrel with you, Vergil,” frankly it was said. “I'm a pacifist. I don't care to put myself in the line of fire. I've lived for too long already to risk death by anyone's hand now, yours included.”

“Are you asking me for mercy?”

“I'm only telling you that you have no enemy in me. In fact, I suspect I could help you.”

A neutral party, then? Indifferent toward one brother and the other.  _Convenient_ , if he was to be believed—and Vergil was undecided upon that sole point. Phineas could have easily lied to him now, as he was certain the aged demon would have done so in the past. He seemed the type to take advantage; to fit himself in whichever position would suit him best. Unsurprising. But the suggestion of  _help_  left a flame to burn a hole through Vergil's conscious mind. Even having himself engaged did not lessen the effects of his symptoms. Whatever ailment plagued him now had persisted, even going as far as to weaken his haunting voice. With minor difficulty he spoke, but he hated that he appeared vulnerable at all. For his figure alone to stir those feelings of  _pity_  in another, he must have been handling himself quite poorly. Indeed, his arms grew tired of holding his current stance, with his body calling for reprieve despite the energy pumping through his bloodstream. For the time being, Vergil relaxed as much as he was able, letting his arms fall into their usual places at his sides. Defenseless, open to attack. His body was confused, and his mind in worse straits. There seemed to be a tightness within his chest, and it affected his respiration as before. Shallow breaths were drawn, made frequent for want of oxygen. Lips were parted as if to take in more air, but the solid distrust upon his ghostly countenance, and the bitterness with it, held itself expertly.

“Help  _me_?” he breathed, doubtful. “What good is your help to me?”

“Even a blind man, and a  _demon_ , can see that you're in pain. You're suffering.” And even with this putting Vergil on his guard, Phineas merely smiled a mite in amusement toward himself, his own inconsistent vision, and he finally found the incentive to move forward. Calm, paced steps brought him closer to the nephilim, but he stopped well before he provoked discomfort. In contrast to relaxed old age, youth stiffened and steeled itself. Vergil did not much appreciate these intrusive observations. Peeled lips went a short way to prove as much.

“If I had to guess,” Phineas continued, “I would say that you've let a demon come quite close to you.”

“You don't know a damned thing about me!” Inhuman, voice deep and hostile; stance aggressive, quickly shifting, a hand coming to grasp at sword's hilt once more. The Hollow would not take this, and it knew Vergil was of equal sentiment. Teeth clenched tighter, eyes pierced harder as if sharpened daggers meaning to bore holes into someone who had no right to the life of the young lord. His suffering was his own; if he should have anything, it would be this. No scholarly demon would pry that from his cold, burning hands. “I don't need help from you,” he growled, his jaws tightly wound, with marked difficulty to his voice. “And the last thing I  _want_  is for you, or  _anyone_ , to assume whatever you will about me.”

“You make it obvious, Vergil.”

“Enough of you!” His temper had reached its boiling point, and his patience its end. In one swift movement, he flung himself forward with the unsheathing of his blade, arm swinging from southwest to northeast for a deadly, uncompromising slash. His prowess had been hindered, evidently, as he failed to land so much as a scratch upon his intended target. Before his eyes the demon vanished, leaving but wisps in his wake. Knowing this frustrated Vergil all the more, promoting the hostility in his heart and prompting a harder gritting of the teeth, a meaner snarl to already angered features. It wasn't intentional that he failed, for he had staggered upon throwing the force of his strike too far ahead. A miscalculation in his haste: he hadn't given it the least bit of thought, it was  _too impulsive_  of him. In the seconds he realized his folly, he could feel the demon at once behind him, suddenly, and the Hollow within had ushered forth a snarl not alike to any predator known to mankind. But Vergil suffered for this, and he quickly clutched at his chest, scabbard in palm, turning gradually all the while to look at the demon who had bested him. Vergil would rarely miss. Vergil would rarely make a mistake. He was the epitome of precision, of near-perfection. Just the sole thought that he'd failed at so simple a maneuver had him seething. His movement had been impaired, unfortunately, though it was to the favor of Phineas that he had not been cut down in cold blood—and they  _both_  knew that very scene would have unfolded otherwise, if it only hadn't been for the thing poisoning the body and mind of His Lordship.

He winced, pain evident upon his features among the wrath that swelled within him. Perhaps it was all the more chafing to him that Phineas should regard him with only a mild expression,  _neutral_ , not even the slightest touch smug or relieved, or even sympathetic toward one worthy of pity. But Vergil would never stand for that if it were offered, and Phineas had discerned enough of the nephilim's nature from what little he had observed and heard and inferred from his own analysis. Quite a sharp one himself, much to Vergil's annoyance. Phineas was unquestionably one not to be underestimated. He'd garnered centuries of wisdom, after all. He must have expected Vergil to strike at him…

“You can't even defend yourself,” noted the demon, having secured the confirmation he  _didn't_  need (he'd guessed already). He took a step toward the corrupted nephilim, then another, then one more before he'd been urged to halt with a single growl. “I am no enemy of yours,” he repeated, emphasis now applied to each word uttered. “It wouldn't be right to leave you so vulnerable, not while I have a means of alleviating whatever ails you.”

“I want nothing from you!” Stubbornly Vergil insisted, every word straining to slip past his lips. He held up his sword arm, but knew it to be in vain. It soon fell, rejoining his side, and he took this moment to return Yamato to its sheathe, for he knew it now pointless to pretend he could fight. Phineas believed this to be wise, and the demon approached him once more.

Despite his blind reluctance, Vergil had so far not seen harm to come from the scholarly, so called  _pacifist_. But he could not, in good or flawed conscience, trust in whatever sincerity lied behind an affable countenance. His guard remained, what little of it he could hold. The Hollow was mad, undeniably: it might have writhed within him, roiling in its hatred and its fury, the pure chaos that it was. All the fierceness of Hell, of  _himself_ , wishing so vehemently to unleash itself, to lash at the fool who dared to stoke and, subsequently, dared to put out the fire. The cause of the nephilim's agony, his torment: a  _fragment_  of his mind and his self. Sad it was that he worked against himself. He would drag  _himself_  back to Hell, with no chance of escape the next time. There would be no second tries, no lucky breaks—of this he was almost certain. He'd had his  _other chance_ , and he was living it.

A hand went placed upon his shoulder, as if reassuringly, and it was unexpected in the extreme. Vergil stiffened at the touch, but he did not shrink away, nor did he snap his teeth at he who offered support. Against this the Hollow protested severely, but Vergil's own conviction overpowered even the transcendental chokehold upon him, and he stood his ground in his best effort to observe and understand. However he may try, and that he'd  _stopped_  doing, he could not hold himself upright, the weakness of body, the pain, the power within warring against itself all conspired to render him a mess, and therefore unable to carry himself in his usual manner. He would have to be excused for his curved spine, the stooping he'd done as, subconsciously, he attempted to contract his body as if to ease the suffering. That had not impacted his gaze, however, as eye contact between the pair had not yet broken. “ _What_?” Vergil demanded, his one word a world of questions simultaneously asked.

“If you will trust an old demon,” said Phineas, “then you may find relief, momentarily. I know something of what you're going through—the  _symptoms_  are familiar to me, at least—and I happen to know how to stave off the effects for the time being.”

“I'm not playing your game,” Vergil hissed, hackles raised as if he were ready to strike again in spite of his inability to act.

“I'm afraid I don't have the patience for play. I take all things seriously.”

“What makes you think I would accept your help? I don't even know what you'd do to me.”

Vergil's person had been abandoned by now, with Phineas' hand retreating to its twin to lace fingers. “I have foresight. I think you know that. I make conclusions of my own, besides.” That same neutral gleam to his eye, Phineas went on to put Vergil's doubts to rest. “I think anyone in your condition would appreciate a lifting of effects, given what you're feeling. It looks to be quite crippling. I admire your fortitude, Vergil. You can stand there in defiance, in bad health, and yet you are made immediately aware of your limitations. Even  _that_  isn't going to stop you. It would be a shame to see a spirit like yours snuffed out this early.” A pause, little room for contemplation, a quick chance to regard any change to Vergil's countenance, before he started again: “I have an incantation for you. I've studied much in my life, and I know things that ought not to be known. Any sensible demon would shrink away from what I've exposed myself to, but the more daring, more  _intelligent_  of the bunch would know to learn more than is necessary. So, I have come to memorize an incantation that would ward off…  _leeches_ , to put it in a way. A demon sucks the life out of you, and the right words, the right sounds, tones, would force it off of you. For a short time, of course.”

Left with pause, the young lord had little to say, but much to ponder. Naturally, he showed hesitation, and even with a mind clouded, chaotic, he thought over his options. Phineas did not press him to act, and that would go a distance in his favor. The darker shades of Vergil's consciousness had not agreed to any of it, as was to be expected, and it barked ever on, ever loudly within the confines of his mind.

_'He's lying to you! He could hurt you—kill you with that!'_

_He might, he might not._

_'He has been with Dante! You can feel it too.'_

_No… I think you're wrong._

But what would be the wisest thing? To trust in Phineas, to merely take his word for something of which no evidence could be procured was a hazard; but, then, it would be a hazard to ignore whatever symptoms arrested Vergil at the moment, and had done so before, and chances were good that such a cycle would continue. Maybe this was how the Hollow worked to kill him and he'd never know it. Even Phineas, who was no relation of his, concluded that he suffered an absorption of life—of course, this, too, could have been part of the ploy. Such indecision would not last any longer, for death surely would come in one form or another, and Vergil had preferred to take whatever chance at life was thrown at him. If this would come from an incantation generally avoided, then it must.

“...All right. I'll hear it.”

“Brace yourself, Vergil. I think you understand.”

More anguish to come, then. Naturally. In any case, Vergil took heed, ignoring the protests in his head outright. Perhaps it was rash of him, but he desired an end to the troubled breathing, the heart palpitations, the squeeze of his chest, the swirling mind—if he could be rid of it all, if only for hours, he would opt for that chance. Little could be done in the way of preparation, for his mind was halved, and his will was weakened as he shared it with another. The nephilim would not yield to the whims of his demons, as was to be expected, for he was headstrong and had not one desire to bend to whatever endeavoring to defeat him. With mind about as clear as he could make it, the clutter considered, he poised himself appropriately to listen to what he had coming. There was no delay. Phineas extended an arm, reaching for Vergil; hand went to forehead, and this gave the nephilim pause again. He knew not of a touch to be required, but while the Hollow screamed at him, he did not shrink. Instantly did Phineas begin, voice smooth and almost soothing as he recited the words—not Latin, not any language known to Vergil—that were meant to drive off the torment into a corner. If it had not been for a second's delay, the shift in the nephilim's manner would have struck him straightaway. Once again, his eyes shut and the gritting of teeth resumed.

_'I told you!'_

The tempest returned, throwing up noise all around. Vergil could only curl within himself, doubling over as he cried through restraint—the hand upon his crown fixed. The voice that was not his own roared and shouted and chastised, but, like water down a drain, the Hollow's influence was sent down into the sewers. Still, this left him weak, and from all that he had endured that evening, he found himself finally spent. He dropped to his knees, Yamato falling to the floor beside him, and Phineas had knelt, too, to keep his hold steady. His voice was ceaseless, yet ever so calm; but Vergil was deafened to his noise. With one arm extended to the pavement to support his weight, and another tucked close to his breast, Vergil looked the very picture of defeat. It was his resolve alone that allowed him to stay on his knees at all; he would not be forced onto his face, and so far he could manage that. The clouds in his mind started to clear, and for once since he'd come back to Earth he could feel  _space_. He may even call it freedom—but he knew the truth of the matter was not so generous. His pains left him, and did not take long in doing so; no part of his ribcage compressed when he inhaled, and in fact he could breathe with greater ease with each passing nanosecond. His own voice had shut itself away, creeping toward the very back of his tongue. He'd stopped growling, whining, by now, when the relief settled. It afforded him a chance to peel open his eyelids, and once again the dark of night was there for his vision to welcome. He hadn't realized, in all of the tumult and all of his  _feeling_ , that there was quiet even from the demon in his company.  _Unbelievable_ —the incantation had done its work, though the very beginnings of its spiritual purge were severe. A reversal of effects, but with initial symptoms too similar for his taste. Regardless, he would rather have  _this_.

He felt better.

Upon his knees he sat. His body pulled upright, neck craning back for a view of the sky. And there, just before him, remained Phineas, with both of his arms now returned to him, and stretched to his usual height. Luminous orbs of light were once blue eyes, still, and the rest of his body had not reacted to the fullest to effects of the incantation. Though his Trigger endured, he would not mind it. The pain and the discomfort from before had dissipated; lingering aches clung to his body, yes, but these were small and insignificant in the bigger picture. However, now he could get a firmer sense of how tired he'd become. Exhaustion of the body, the mind, and of the spiritual kind had now made itself glaringly obvious to the nephilim; one so accustomed to vigor and to vivacity had not known exhaustion of this type. Indeed, he believed that not even in Hell had he felt so impaired. Well, there was really nothing for it. He gazed at Phineas for a time, a short time only, before looking below to pick up his sword, and pushing himself off the ground at last.

“How did you know?” he was obliged to wonder, an air of suspicion about him yet. Upon standing, his other arm fell to his side, and he now carried himself with nearly as much of a familiar stance as he always had.

“As I said, I observed your symptoms. They struck me with a likeness to demonic possession. Wouldn't you agree?”

“You're saying I'm  _poss_ _essed_ by a demon.”

“My friend,” the elder chortled through goodness of character, “I said that the symptoms you were exhibiting were  _similar_. Therefore, I guessed that the incantation I had memorized would ward off some of them.”

“But it's your opinion that I have a demon in, or on, me, isn't it? I can read this on you. You think I'm possessed.”

And even through all of this, the voice in his head had not retreated to the fullest. Whispers not his own were there, within the depths of his mind, and he could honestly admit that it was to be expected. It would take more, perhaps a heavy toll, to rid himself of the parasite that Phineas had so accurately surmised took hold of him. The truth was ever plain: Vergil got much too close to the Hollow, foolishly let it inside of him. Now, he grappled with it, and his battle would be viewable to anyone who cared to see. Phineas, for instance, had become first witness—and, oh, he was much too wise to play the fool, here. While this may have bothered the nephilim, perhaps it irked him all the more that his company chose to ignore it, or that he preferred to dance around the subject. Phineas' expression had not changed since he'd been charged with harboring concealed insight, but there was definitely a gleam to his eye that was telling in itself. That sagacity of his was one of a kind, but it would be folly to use that to invalidate the youth standing across from him.

Even with all the potential of Vergil's piercing gaze to a burn a hole right through him, Phineas had not backed down, nor flinched in the subtlest way. How composed did he carry himself as he stood in perfect calm. Something like Vergil, back when his psyche had the stability to allow it. A picture of irony painted the two; though, as far as Phineas was concerned, his manner had never really wavered. Not in the past few hundreds of years, at least. “I'm inclined to believe that,” he said at last, his tone not even a mite sharp or hurt. “You seem to feel more strongly of it than I do; why should my opinion be of any value?”

That was meant to infuriate, surely. Hostile lips curled into a snarl, but Vergil fell short of countering. He could see the point made, the sense in what was implied. Rather  _gently_ , he was told to accept his truth, whatever it may be, and Phineas had the good sense not to name his trouble, but to let Vergil discern what it was for himself. A lesson taught, if Vergil was willing to learn—and so he would whether or not he liked to. It was self-evident, anyway;  _he_  should not be coy, he should not pretend to seek the answers he already had. This discussion was futile, and the Hollow made that clear enough with the snicker it let ring through its host's consciousness. Vergil had reined himself in upon a second's reflection, and he relaxed the scorn upon his countenance in order to tame his beast. If he failed to control himself, his temper at least, the effects of the incantation would prove to be good for nothing. Indeed, he said not a word, and lips rejoined one another. “Maybe I'm just checking,” he came to say, needing the last word  _even_  as his voice had gone a lower pitch. “I'm guessing I owe you my gratitude?”

“It's inconsequential to me, Vergil. Thank me, or take me for granted. It makes no difference in the end.”

Vergil elected to keep his tongue. While his manners might have failed him here, he at least harbored the courtesy to forget whatever vitriol he'd spewed earlier. With his eyes upon Phineas once more, he went on to change the subject altogether; to take his leave. “I'll be on my way.” He turned, an air of acknowledgment about him as if to suggest that he  _did_ , to whichever small amount, look upon the aged demon with kinder eyes, and that he had reason to be cordial with him for now and ever. However, the calm of that now familiar voice had taken Vergil's progress from him, obliging him to remain at that very area while the demon had his piece to speak.

“Just where are you headed?”

Only a short delay passed between the question asked and another posed in retort when Vergil had turned to face him once more. “Why does that matter to you?” He did not take kindly to having his affairs pried into, even from one as benign as Phineas. They had not known each other even for more than an hour, besides, and it was too soon for Vergil to show him any semblance of trust—yet, within the better part of himself, a predisposition toward amiability had taken root.

“I notice you're heading toward the heart of the city,” followed the usual, mellow reply.

Vergil had not wanted to descend into the details. Among the destruction, it was near impossible to discern the environment anymore: his bearings had unwound, and he oft found himself rediscovering the city he once called home. But none of this really brought about any doubts to what he believed was true. Toward the distance he looked, neck twisting in the opposite direction as he now beheld the path he'd intended on taking. The calling there was loud, or the force that pushed him equally strong. It was cause for some debate, within himself, but he did not question his impulse far enough to dig his heels in and stop. A thoughtfulness came about him, the sharpness to his voice gone dull as he reflected vaguely right where he stood. “I am,” came a reply. “Something tells me I should go there.”

“So you remember what lies beyond here.”

“...I do.” The whole of his body had turned, facing his destination as before. The time had come, now, for him to move on. Without a final backward glance, he bade the genial demon a farewell of sorts; nothing compromising, nothing committal, maybe callous in delivery to some, but by no means something he would come to regret. He was certain of the fact that he was understood, both in word and in manner, and not an utterance of a proper goodbye slipped past his lips.The two parted company at last, Vergil starting off again with Phineas' gazeboring into him. It was nothing to bother over: his silhouette had soon bled into the thick of night. It might be a good while before they crossed paths again; odd, but he felt more or less confident in supposing so.

He had not been rejected, not shunned, not had even a word of contempt spoken to him. The last mistake he could make would be to take a seemingly kindly spirit for granted; to believe in what it  _appeared_  to be rather than what potential lay therein. He would not be so quick to find support in any demon, or any  _thing_  living for that matter. Circumstances had handled him too roughly for him to become soft. No, it was necessary to be careful, to be suspicious— _paranoid_ to some extent in his case. Trusting in others was difficult, and any association of his estranged brother's would be ever less likely to earn so much as respect from one of the underworld's newest members among its pecking order. Yet, meeting Phineas had occasioned a change, albeit one slight. Vergil would be open toward a second encounter, as he felt he would be open to giving this one demon in particular a chance—be it to earn Vergil's favor, or Vergil's mercy, his respect, anything at all the nephilim could possibly bestow of his freest will. Now, should Vergil find himself  _wronged_  in any way, then surely the elder would have hell to pay.


	3. Chapter 3

The trot was another lengthy one. Without the benefit of a car, and suitable roads on which to drive it, Vergil had little else left to him. While, in his isolation, he mused upon a good many things, the voice of his Hollow would occasionally creep up behind him, and whisper to him in passing before fading back into the confines of its prison. It was quieter, generally out of the way thanks to the effects of the incantation. It could not be any clearer to him, now, that he made his way toward a tower once belonging to a former despot, which had cast a rope round his legs, and dragged him thither as if by preternatural force. The Hollow had no issue with this, and Vergil himself found no real objection against the direction he followed. The calling was greatest, it appeared, the closer he drew; and so he knew, with  _full_  confidence, that the demon encompassing the largest part of him had wanted this, waited for it. With the best of opportunities poised for the nephilim, he was led deeper still into the city. But with every bit of distance lost, reluctance had come to wrest dominance from his calm.

Walking for what felt like an eternity, amid the rubble and the torn streets, he came his closest (for the moment) to the crumbling structure, and from below he peered up to take in the sight of it. Dislike for the situation, the surroundings included, crept up on him from somewhere within, and all the while the effects of the incantation had begun to shrivel.  _So soon already._ He felt a mounting foreboding, and a familiar darkness ever so  _reliable_ regaining its strength. He felt his brows inch toward each other, as though even his body, without the use of his volition, expressed discouragement. But the steps would be climbed, the tower would be entered. This place should have been forgotten to him, and he hated the inkling as to why he should bring himself back. It was the fault of the Hollow: it hadn't urged him away, nor had it given him reason to step back. It encouraged him, bent his drive.

It wanted this, the Hell Gate—that infernal thing which he'd taken great pains to shut down. It remained whole, slumbering within abandoned walls. Vergil had known this plainly, and the prospect before him, he also knew, was one to be avoided. In surest spite of that, Vergil would go where he was beckoned.

At this time of night, with the electricity knocked out thoroughly in the tower, he could not so easily scale its great height without the use of its elevators. Improvisation was due, and only one idea came forward. A single Summoned Sword was flung a generous way's  _up_  onto the structure itself, and to it he would be pulled by the grace of his gifts. However, all that followed would require speed. Hovering in the air was not a talent of his, so he was obliged to skid the soles of his shoes against the perpendicular surface of the tower, and with greatest effort on his part, for he had no manipulation over gravity. At the very least, he had his Devil Trigger to enhance that which he used, and so he was nimble even as he stepped in direct opposition to the forces that dared to ground him. One, two steps upon the wall, then a jump, and another projectile thrown—such was the cycle, and one that demanded his concentration or else he would make a  _fatal_  mistake. Tripping and falling would be disastrous if he did not react fast enough to save himself. Thankfully, the nephilim was sprightly even off of the ground, and he did not tire through repetitive movement—he couldn't have afforded it, anyway.

He had remembered, roughly, where the gate resided, and even in the impenetrable dark he was able to see what he'd been doing. The lad must be praised for his aptitude, as well as for how he hadn't once loosened his grip over his sword. It was much to his relief that the summit lay within his grasp, the voice breaking his concentration to tell him  _it was there_. Now, the flexibility of his frame would make itself apparent. Though he had no audience, he would at least impress himself. A Summoned Sword was driven into the wall just a pair of floors above him; not a second had passed when he was pulled toward the point of impact, and upon using his feet for the briefest moment of balance, he threw his arms out to anchor himself to the ledge that a broken window had provided. It was rather desperately that he clung, though shards of glass still attached to the pane had dug into his skin through his clothes, and he raged against the biting pain for the sake of remaining suspended. His hold was secure, his body pressed against the exterior wall; but he could breathe no easier until he was safely inside. He'd clambered through, minding the shards still stuck to the framing of the window as well as those littering the floor. Oh, this was all more trouble than it was worth. At least exiting would prove simpler by far.

Hardly breathless, the nephilim stood within the chamber all too familiar. It was only in recent weeks that he'd come here; had it been so little time already? Wetness was felt on his arms, even through his sleeves, but the cuts were swiftly remedied with his regenerative prowess, and they were forgotten as, thankfully, no shrapnel had become embedded. Eyes frigid had settled upon the Hell Gate upon his first setting foot into the room. He didn't like the feeling possessing him any more then when he'd been outside. In fact, it grew oppressive, and the voice that had been relatively out of the way thus far had abruptly chimed in with renewed animation.

_'There it is. Go on.'_

Ridiculous.  _No._

Thick was the atmosphere, bedeviling in its emptiness, as in the blackness all around. Untouched the room had been left, up until now, with cool winds blowing in through broken windows. They depressed the stuffiness, even stirred the hair atop Vergil's head. The breeze ghosted across his face, a welcome sensation that reminded him of the life that was to be found outside—quite the contrast to the likeness of death that had come upon this room in particular. No life here, not even vermin. The Hell Gate had remained ever inactive since the day Yamato was thrust into its swirling belly. It was quiet; dead, but… not quite. Not if Vergil felt an urge to awaken it. His legs moved, carried him forward, but at so slow and measured a pace that it was made clear this was no idea of  _his_. Hesitation, unease—any man, any demon or angel would not falter with their goal  _just_  out of reach. The darkness that enveloped him, the sheer quiet had made it all the more discomforting, and it struck him with a sense of intrigue, of mystery and suspicion; and, with less prominence: danger, fear. A fear of the unknown, of what lay hidden in the dark, of the dangers that awaited him just beyond the threshold of the Gate.

For one accustomed to conditions as these, he'd certainly looked the spitting image of inexperience. While there were no demons near, this place had offended Vergil with how it reeked as if an active den. Traces left over had undoubtedly impregnated the very walls, every inch of the chamber formerly belonging to a familial relation he hadn't the slightest regret in having had killed. Even with him deceased and this chamber left unoccupied for days, it felt heavy and toxic to the mind. A generally unpleasant place to be, and more so with no light of any kind to at least give the room a  _semblance_  of the everyday. It felt worse to him now than when he'd first entered, but perhaps he was too absorbed by his motivations, back then, to really concern himself with the atmosphere in the room.

Regardless of his inhibitions, he felt himself inching ever closer to the Hell Gate. It did not matter that he stopped a moment, considered his actions, then drew back—he would always go again, swaying in one direction or another, or taking two steps forward to pause again. His hesitation was exemplary, but it was not his will to proceed. He was thoroughly confounded by the movement of his body, and upon taking the hilt of his sword without so much as a thought to it, he was struck with anxiety.  _I'm not doing this!_

An unfortunate realization came about: the incantation offered to him had lost its power. He resisted against himself, and yet he did not comply with his wishes. So, it was true: the possession was upon him, within him, and it struggled against him for control. He'd moved, but he was  _made_  to move—and all this time, too, ever since he'd first entered Devil Trigger. The uncanny pull toward this place was nothing remarkably obscure, but only the work of the damned voice in his head, playing games with him as it ever had. And he was gullible enough to fall for it; he was so vulnerable  _still_  that he'd allowed this to come to pass. His eyes had widened with a panic taking hold. He'd tightened his muscles, doing whatever in his power to anchor himself, but his will was contested by that of the Hollow's.

_'Vergil, come on. Just let go. I'm trying to help you.'_

_Fuck_ , he hated that it was his voice. He hated that it mimicked his diction, that it sounded so calm and sincere,  _reassuring_ , just as  _he_  would. And he knew it was all a facade. This parasite was after something, but it would not get it by way of its host. Naturally, as was his luck, when his resolve had been its strongest, the weight of his attachment came to crush him from head to toe. The voice insisted, grew impatient, incessant, and finally drew from Vergil a declaration of his weakness. He shouted aloud for the thing to stop, in all of his frenzy and his anger; oh, he sounded pitiable, crying, “Enough!  _Enough_  of you!” in surest vain. He knew had no way out, and yet he yelled and snarled and gnashed his teeth beneath the pressure in his head, his mind filled with noise.

Anyone watching would have thought him touched. But he was alone, with no human around for even a mile. He could  _speak_  to his demon, not merely think to it anymore, although he would still hear it in his mind, no matter how much he wished it out of him.

 _'I don't think you mean that. I'm the only one_ here _for you.'_

“I'm not doing this! I'm not opening it for you.'

_'For me? It's for you, or for us. You remember what I told you: we're one and the same. The Hell Gate would do so much for us.'_

_No, no…_  Vergil clutched Yamato close, as if meaning to save it from what he would do with it. But this worked against his favor when he'd been pushed to start sliding the blade from its scabbard. With every jerk of his own, he was made to jerk harder. But this was tiring, exhausting, and any patience within Vergil had met its end here and now. Though he had attempted to withdraw into himself in some effort to repel, or at least prolong, that which he fought against, he now found all attempts hopeless; and upon fully drawing his blade, he could not help a whimper.

But this the Hollow had not foreseen.

Pain, crippling pain that  _it_  had not caused.

Vergil doubled over, hand upon hilt with the blade sunk into his thigh. He cried again, a fire on his tongue with agony burning throughout his body. Through lids open only ajar, he could see red seeping into his pant leg. A growing stain was what he'd needed to see before plucking his own sword from his body, and this hurt like  _hell_ —one of its deepest layers, even. Never in the habit of injuring himself with Yamato, he'd forgotten how terribly deadly his weapon of choice had always been, and the pain from slicing into his own body with a blade so fine and precise was unlike any other. By no means had he fatally wounded himself, but he dropped himself to his knees—this, alas, sent another wave of fire across his leg. All this to take his mobility away from the Hollow for the time being. The pain alone, not even the damage done to his person, was enough to cripple him, and for this he was reprimanded.

_'You idiot! What are you thinking?!'_

“You're a liar,” he hissed in response, teeth clenched and the whole of him wincing. “I don't need the Hell Gate, but… you do. And you're not getting it.”

 _'Just take a look at yourself. Do you see how you're bleeding? You could have thrust that blade into your chest, your neck—what would save you then? But you could be immortal! Then nothing could kill you, Vergil._ Nothing. _'_

“Immortal!” The word came as a scoff, almost a laugh, even as Vergil resigned himself to the floor with his head drooping between his shoulders. He'd let go of Yamato, unhindered by the demon; even went as far as to slide it away from him for fear of grabbing it involuntarily. He was not worried for his injury, for it would heal in due time. He'd survived worse, though the hurting was impressively intense. “I'd never wanted that.” To watch the world around him die while  _he_  lived ceaselessly was more of a horrific situation to be in than a fortunate one. No one sensible would wish it, and even Vergil, with his peculiar sense of self and all the attributes which made him a little too unique even for mankind's discriminating eye, had never once hoped to live forever, but instead that he lived a  _full_  life, no matter how short that would be. However, at this rate, with present circumstances taken into account, he may have neither a full or long life to look forward to. If it was to be of any consolation to him, he at least had known that the Hollow would  _need_  him alive. It would make certain that he would not fall, and subsequently leave it to its own demise.

 _'Don't be naive. Just imagine how much_ more _you could be with the Hell Gate at your command.'_

It tried to persuade him, but he hadn't an interest in responding. He shifted where he knelt, putting his weight upon his right hip as he relaxed his wounded leg, carefully stretching it out; and he shifted again when he took to his backside, with his unaffected leg bent at the knee and drawn toward his trunk. He would sit there until he was healed, obstinate, yet closely resembling a kicked puppy with nothing left to him. He could already feel abating the fire in his thigh, and from this he gathered that his healing powers were reliably at swift work repairing the damage. Soon, he would be able to move, and his Hollow would try again to move him where it wanted. If Vergil was anything, he was determined. No demon would have their way with him, not even one born of his own psyche. Even as the Hollow carried on, Vergil looked toward Yamato, and then toward the scabbard that lay even closer to him. He hated that he had to treat his most treasured belonging with such disrespect, but he felt it necessary in order to prevent something likely to occur  _if_  he was not careful.

_'Vergil.'_

If he were to make it easy for his own body to be manipulated against his will, then he would have failed. Defeat was not, now nor ever, an option. In fact, it was adroit of him to have injured himself. Perfectly unexpected of him to do, and it was what drew his demon's attention away from its motive. Vergil could gather resistance as he healed, to reinforce his mental fortitude. It was weakened, he was vulnerable, and the Hollow easily exploited this. He must not plan, but act upon first instinct; to blindly  _do_ , not think, or else he would have given his adversary time to thwart him. A successful gambit, resulting in more equal odds. Vergil had yet the chance to claim victory from all of this, and in the face of all that culminated to seize opportunity from him, he had defiantly stood—or sat, in this case—his ground, dug his figurative heels in, and mustered his best effort into pushing the unneeded voice from his mind. Even this was hard, as he expected it to be, and it seemed he was spoken to all the louder, with the voice nearer to him now than he could recall.

_'Nothing you do is going to separate us. I've always been here for you, that's what you don't realize. You can't accept it, but I would never lie to you. I won't abandon you, Vergil, unlike the people you thought you could be close to. Even your brother: he left you for dead, but I was there to guide you when you were left helpless.'_

_Just stop._

_'I'm the only one who_ really _understands. T_ _hink about it. I'm the only one yo_ _u_ _could have ever turned to, and now you can._ _Y_ _ou think a gnarly old demon like Phineas will help you? He's not even loyal; not to your brother, and much less to you._   _He takes no sides, you_ _'ve_ _heard what he_ _'d_ _said.'_

The very last of his hopes were dashed with the Hollow more active now than at any point in the day. He thought he could beat it—perhaps foolishly so, and in trying the demon became wise to his meager attempts. It did not mock, nor did it chastise him for doing so. It urged him, through sensation alone, to look once more upon the sword, and gave him the thought of picking it up. Encouragement was provided through words, and that paired with an abundance of  _feeling_ , of impulses and instructions made it all too probable that  _something_  within the nephilim would come undone. His mind was unraveling, slowly; he'd felt it slipping, and all because he showed resistance. Gloved fingers weaved through the strands of his hair when they found a place whereupon to latch, the ends of every digit pressed into his scalp as if out of some animalistic need to tear into what caused him so much misery. He would have peeled the skin away and dug into bone and tissue to give himself the relief he desperately craved. But he believed himself above this. He was no animal, no mere  _man_.

Vergil did not look at Yamato, nor at the Hell Gate, nor did he even glimpse at the blotched crimson now adorning his person. In fact, he looked at nothing, but shut his eyes tightly in defiance. He appeared a youth insane, in the process of losing grip with reality; wild clamoring and curling over into his abdomen, even going as far as to cut through his own body, right at the brink of forcing his fingers, hands included, through his crown. Even through this, the Hollow's voice was deathless, muttering something about the Hell Gate, or about Yamato, and anything else sufficient for persuasion. It was calm, however, and did not shout, though its voice was persistently audible; not angry, but maybe disappointed. Of course, level-headed like Vergil, who exemplified the opposite at the time.

A return of difficulty in breathing and pangs in the chest had been the final straw for the nephilim, who found himself punished for denying the will of his darker half. It seemed as though it would not rest tonight, desperate for Vergil to give it what it brought him here for. If that meant taking his breath away,  _beating_  him into submission, then it may very well give itself the excuse—but, of course, not going so far as to risk his life.

Through the tightening of his chest, and all of the pitiful snarling he'd been doing, he managed to carry  _his_  voice,  _his_  demands above his demon's, and it was in spite of aches and all present hindrances that his words erupted with vehemence in his best effort to put that infernal beast in its place.

“Get  _out_  of my head! I don't need you! You have no reason to  _be_! You're fucking  _nothing_  without me! I'm not opening  _shit_  for you. Just leave!  _Leave_!”  _S_ _top this! Shut up,_ get out _!_

And even then, it must have been something of his demon he channeled to have roared so furiously; so much anger and hatred and exasperation and  _aggression_  had come about him as if something completely different took possession of him. He'd have taken Yamato out of sheer impulse, feeling as though he'd have an enemy to slay in the flesh. It would have surely helped him, for he heard the loudest calls to violence within his  _right_  mind. Blood hotter than fire would have burst from his weakest points, and it was fortunate that the gash in his leg had healed itself perfectly long before the shift in his demeanor (else it would have bled from his passion alone).

There was, however, a space of inaction following his demand for release—rather, a quietude that Vergil had not taken note of until a few moments' delay. Subconsciously, he'd let go of his head. The air was still, save for the wind blowing in, even with the thickness of the room in which he'd remained. But, no, none of that was as equally important as the  _quiet_. He could not have had a good enough chance to question the sudden turn, for another shift must come swiftly to rock his already shaken foundations. A diminishing of strength and hyper-sensitivity, along with a brutal exhaustion crashing down upon him, had signaled his departure from so elevated a state of body and ability as his Devil Trigger. Even his appearance had made it clear to him: hair had fallen upon his brow in shabby bangs, and his sleeves returned to the color he'd almost forgotten they used to be. And, still, all this through haunting silence. Where had his companion gone? Its voice was absent, any possible residual influence nonexistent. Vergil preferred not to think, but rather ran his hand through his hair again as if for confirmation. His Trigger had gone, previously forced upon him by the Hollow, but now he was left weakened, battered and vulnerable beyond compare. Exhaustion took no time to settle, taking root within Vergil's core to spread through body and mind. The whole thing—from the very beginning until moments go—was a severe expenditure of energy, and it could not be felt until now, when nothing veiled the truth of what his body could take. His Devil Trigger fooled him, made him feel invincible; it healed remarkably, boosted his powers of perception, and dulled adverse effects from any given source.

If the boy had suffered even in Devil Trigger, he had scarcely been prepared for how  _getting_   _out_  of it would leave him.

This welcomed a familiar symptom, and it was quite enough to draw his hands to his heart. With his voice returned to its normal pitch and tone, he'd groaned more like a man and less like a demon when the knives within his chest demanded a form of vocal expression. Vergil could do nothing but oblige, and in spite of his effort to fight against sounding out, the pain within was really all too defeating. He curled into himself, ultimately falling to his flank with his hands fixed upon his chest. The Hollow would not leave so contently—nor wholly—it seemed, and decided to leave a reminder of its endurance for Vergil. Now he writhed, face to the floor and legs stretching and retracting in protest against the pain in his chest. Through nostrils his breath had warmed the flooring just beneath his cheek, though it came hard and haggard as his lungs were quite unable to expand. The right arm had peeled itself away from his person, now planting itself upon the floor with gloved digits almost grasping at the surface. He lay misshapen, more upon his front and less on his side; left leg drawn toward him and its twin only halfway bent. As if a dagger had lodged itself into his heart, twisting this way and turning that, he had come to believe that, perhaps, this was where he would expire at last. To order the demon into retreat, he had mistakenly tested its might—but he was not allowed to die, or else he would have gone long before now. His torment was not meant to last, as only a handful of minutes of anguish were needed in order to let him have his peace. Subsidence had come to relieve him relatively quickly—though, to his mind, it took almost an eternity.

With his cringing and wincing and gritting of teeth, his eyes shut tight, a snarl stuck to a pallid face, Vergil had not ventured to move. Even with a heart, already beaten, now abandoned by the blades that bore into it, the apprehension of riling it all up again was foremost upon a tired mind. The lungs could fill, now, and he breathed gently, slowly. But he was left terribly battered, and he had not one bruise to show for it. Every inch ached, the muscles stung, bones burned. And his spirit was wounded. It had done fierce battle against a renegade portion of itself, and it had now the opportunity to recover after a victory hard earned. His mind had suffered for it, too, and took the brunt of the blow. When it was once chaotic and full, abuzz with noise and weighed by oppression, it was now that a mind obviously resilient had really felt like it was his own. Strange that it felt vacant,  _comfortable_.

So miserable was he, left brittle, even lying upon the floor as if defeated in humiliating fashion. Never in his life had Vergil felt worse, and he wished simply to curl further into himself, to retreat somewhere that would soothe him, maybe allow him to lick his emotional wounds. Rawest instincts had drawn from him a longing for protection, something akin to the safety of the womb while he lay like a fetus, withdrawing ever closer into his own frame. The pain in his leg, as in his heart, was long forgotten, but there were a dozen aches to replace it in a dozen other areas. Devil Trigger alone consumed so much, and that coupled with all else he'd had to contend with only succeeded in an absolute draining of his might.

He was inclined to crawl across the floor to take Yamato into his clutches, and to tuck it against his frame for some comfort. But he was far more inclined against moving, as spent as he was, and he merely kept to himself in the exact spot he'd lied down upon. Alas, the nephilim was no longer able to fight the frailty wracking his vessel. He resigned himself quite simply to the floor upon which he rested, no matter how cold, hard, or dusty. And to think that the much fought-over Hell Gate resided within the same room, only mere feet from him. It might have stirred to life had Vergil not thwarted himself. It was hard for him, still, to fathom that he had been drawn all the way here; to open that which he had put in every effort and every resource to close. Everything that he had put himself though, the sacrifices that he deemed worthy of making, would not be forgotten so easily, nor would he put it all—himself included—to shame by allowing such a thing to reawaken. Never a thought of his, never an urge, when it was all the motivation of his darker half assuming control it had no right to take. Vergil had entered Devil Trigger, had come here, had unsheathed Yamato to sinister ends.

It was frightening. The poor thing had been made  _weak_ , and therefore an easy tool to command. Hell would have broken loose if he had not made himself a distraction, and ultimately proved himself no simple thing to manipulate. Even with this victory to his name, he felt pitiful. He felt uncertain. He felt a great many things, all of which formed a flood he could have easily drowned in—and so he gave it no thought at all, for he was worn and weary, and the whole of him demanded repose.

In silence, accompanied only by the blowing of the wind, Vergil slipped into a state like sleep with the last of his consciousness robbed from him by mind, body, and spirit all in harmonious agreement. If he should vex himself mentally again, he must wait until he next wakes, when he takes leave of the tower to return to Paradise. The Hollow would let him be for a time. For now, he must succumb to his fatigue. He hardly noticed he'd been lying on the floor anymore.


End file.
